The Distant Temple
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Home for the Aged smelled of boiled cabbage, floor wax, and the particular, cloying sweetness of despair that settles into the velvet upholstery like dust settles into a crack, a scent that Margaret Holloway had come to know as well as she knew the topography of her own aging mind, a scent that clung to the wool of her cardigan and the pores of her skin no...
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